


lunar

by kittenscully



Series: fictober 2020 [27]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, POV Monica Reyes, Post-Episode: s09e16 William, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenscully/pseuds/kittenscully
Summary: There’s no room for those who grieve the grieving, no sacred space for the empathetic. No home for those who love the lovers, outside alone, looking in.[fictober day 27]
Relationships: Monica Reyes/Dana Scully
Series: fictober 2020 [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949467
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	lunar

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "I trust you."

Inside, the apartment feels larger than before, unfamiliar and cold. The silence fills up every corner, rooms suspended in darkness as if holding their breath. 

Dana herself is no different. Arms limp and useless at her sides, eyes downcast.

It’d been so warm when Monica first visited, so thoroughly homelike, charm in wood and thrift store kitsch. And Dana, pregnant and vibrant at the center of it all. The beating heart of the space, lit up incandescent and beautiful even when she was left alone. Moving slowly but steadily, razor sharp eyes and a soft glow surrounding her, a woman of few words who carried meaning in every step.

Proud and kind, saintly and mystical. A visionary, a prophetess. A knight, noble to the core. 

Now, though, even Dana’s actions are lifeless. No matter how close she looks, Monica can’t find any subtext. The spark has gone, lost somewhere out there along with her son.

There’s no explanation provided for why she’d called so late, either, and Monica isn’t entirely sure why she’s here.

It doesn’t matter, of course. She hadn’t been sleeping anyway, and she’d jumped at the chance to come by. The flood of Dana’s grief is the bitterest form of insomnia, and when Monica does manage to rest, she wakes in cold sweats. 

“I’ll make tea,” Monica suggests, finally cutting through the silence. 

Dana nods, stares dully into space. 

Monica wants desperately to comfort her, but she won’t be selfish. Her suffering is secondhand at best, and no matter how much she’d loved the child, she had always loved his mother more. 

There’s no room for those who grieve the grieving, no sacred space for the empathetic. No home for those who love the lovers, outside alone, looking in. 

The mug shelf is full, overflowing with white ceramic and painted flora and fauna. At the front, there’s a mug with a baseball logo that she’s never seen Dana touch. She skirts that one, just as she always skirts the man himself, selecting two with paisley designs and starting the kettle. 

Side by side, they lean against the counter and wait in silence.

It couldn’t be more obvious that Dana needs someone. But there’s a disconnect between needs and comfort, and the best Monica can do is keep an open mind and open arms, just in case.

She had known from the start that the other woman was sworn to someone else. But that hadn’t stopped her from being pulled into Dana’s orbit, lunar and cycling. Reflecting back her light in hopes of guiding her through the darkness.

She suspects that John is much the same as herself. But while John would call Dana his best friend, Monica knows better than to presume. And she knows, too, to keep her distance.

Were things different, her intentions might not be quite so pure as his. 

The whistle makes her jump. Next to her, Dana remains still and listless, watching Monica pour the tea and inhale the fragrant steam.

Many of Monica’s recent nightmares are sympathetic, tied to Dana’s fears. Images of intruders in nurseries, of a snowy grave and a child-sized coffin. Sometimes even of Mulder, who she barely knows, battered like roadkill on the edge of the highway or shot like a dog.

But in the few that are truly her own, it’s Dana who’s gone. Snuffed out, often by her own hand. Those are the ones that scare Monica the most.

As they leave the kitchen, Dana turns out every light behind them, soft and ritual. Her footsteps are inaudible, and she drifts, ghostlike, as if she’s already gone. 

Monica had hoped that checking in on her would assuage some of her worries, but she should’ve known better than to doubt her gut feeling. 

No peace for those who dream of the dreamers, those who prophesy the end of the prophets. Only a bare side table at midnight, an empty bed, a phone that won’t ring. Lonely altars. 

“You said you wanted to talk about something,” she prompts, once they’re seated carefully on opposite ends of the couch.

She’d sat thigh to thigh with Dana many times here, the smaller woman asleep on her shoulder, William one of their laps. And even though it’d had ached every time, in that untouchable, secret place in her chest, it feels wrong to be here without that feeling of bittersweet comfort, without that closeness. Without Dana’s happiness, and without the baby. 

It feels almost as if they’re strangers.

“Yes.” 

There’s a pause, and then Dana’s setting down the untouched tea on the coffee table, and getting to her feet.

“I’ll be just a moment,” she says. 

Watching her disappear gracefully down the hall, illuminated only by the sickly blue of the fishtank, Monica worries. 

When she returns, she’s carrying something in both hands, flat and wrapped in what looks like a scarf. Frowning, Monica looks at her quizzically as she returns to her seat. 

“Dana,” she starts, but the other woman shakes her head, and hands her the object.

The moment she’s holding it, Monica knows what it is, and her stomach sinks. She uncovers it anyway, revealing the worn metal design with all its sharp edges. Swallowing, she brushes her fingers over the angel, the crescent moon. The flaming heart in the center. 

“Why are you giving this back to me?” 

It feels entirely like a rejection, to have a gift so precious returned. And briefly, she thinks that the other woman’s read her mind, seen the things she shouldn’t want but wants all the same.

But there’s no way that Dana could know. This must be something else. 

“There’s no reason to keep it,” Dana says, barely more than a whisper. 

“But it’s for protection,” Monica responds gently, confused. 

The design is a milagro, inherited from her mother, who’d been given it by a dear friend. A charm, slightly bigger than her two hands flattened. Tarnished metal, designed to be hung on a wall. She had given it to Dana last year, mere weeks after meeting her, explained the meaning and watched Dana’s expression shift from inexplicable alarm to touched, beautiful surprise. 

_ I didn’t know, _ Dana had said, sniffling.  _ I thought… I didn’t know that’s what they symbolized. _

Now, she lets out a sad little laugh, the only real expression of emotion Monica’s seen from her since her arrival. 

“There’s nothing left to protect,” she says, sadly. “He’s gone.”

Monica isn’t sure whether it’s the realization of what’s going on that makes her tears well up, or the sight of Dana’s eyes growing wet. She can’t help but move closer, scooping up the charm as she bridges the gap between them. 

The milagro had hung on the wall in William’s nursery, yet another mother passing on protection to her child. It hadn’t gone with him when she gave him up. 

“Yes, there is,” she says, swallowing roughly. “You’re still here.”

Dana shakes her head, her chin wobbling just a little. Monica wants to catch it between her thumb and forefinger, steady her, but she won’t be selfish.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” 

“It’s not meant for me,” Dana argues. 

And Dana’s trying so hard not to cry, keeping her shoulders back, head held high. Her struggle to keep ahold of her dignity feels palpable, just like the shaking of her small hands. Just like the quivering of her lip, begging to be caressed and reassured. 

But all Monica can do, without crossing any lines, is uncover the milagro the rest of the way and press it into Dana’s lap. 

No reward for those who protect the protectors, sidelined and self sufficient. No sacred space for the empathetic.

“But I gave it to you, Dana.”

There’s a faint hiccuping noise as Dana catches her breath, and Monica reaches for her hands, setting them gently on the careworn metal.

“And it  _ was _ meant for you,” she says, and Dana looks at her, and then down at their hands, lost. “It was meant for you, not for William.”

Softly, she rubs her thumbs over Dana’s fingers, watches them flex against the heart. The contact sends sparks through her own palms.

“And I still want you protected,” she murmurs. “Even more now than I did then.”

In front of her, Dana topples at the edge, shuddering with barely repressed pain. 

“I shouldn’t be trusted to care for it,” Dana says, her voice breaking. “I shouldn’t be trusted to care for anything.”

“It’s here to take care of you, not the other way around,” Monica insists. “And I trust you, even if you don’t trust yourself.”

There’s a quiet sob, Dana’s shoulders shaking as her fingers finally curl around the charm. She clutches it towards her body, her composure starting to fall apart. 

And when Monica releases her hands and pulls the smaller woman into her arms instead, it isn’t selfish at all. 

Dana turns into the embrace, curls into her like a child, heaving and distraught. Needing desperately, and finally taking the space that’s offered. The flood of her grief batters against Monica like wild rain, and it's all she can do to keep herself steady, to try to even the tides. 

Between their stomachs, the milagro settles. A protective barrier, a reminder of the boundaries, sharp edges digging into skin through their clothes. 

No comfort for those who care for the caretakers. The last ones to take the punishment of loss, final dominoes falling flat and unsupported. 

But from the moment she’d met Dana, she had known that there was no other option, felt herself irreversibly tied. And she’s made her peace with loving alone, outside and looking in. 

“I’m not going to take it back,” Monica murmurs into her hair, suppressing her own tears. “It’s yours. Okay?” 

And Dana nods, pressing herself closer still, until the familiar, secret ache returns. 


End file.
